Anytime She Goes Away
by Llewlyn
Summary: AU. Complete! Beetlejuice isn't the sharing type, and when his house is invaded, he's ready to do anything to regain his privacy.  Lydia proves hard to impress, so he drags her into a game of words, winner take all.  And then come the pennies...
1. Smudge

**AN**: This is irreverently and totally AU. For my purposes, i have saved the lives of the Maitlands and shuffled them off to some obscure corner of the town. It isn't that i don't like them. It's just that i don't have any use for them. Don't you wish life were more like that?

**Background:** Written within the rules of the actually ghost hunting community, more or less. At least for the first part. BJ can't just chat from the model graveyard—he is well and truly bound, unless Lyds decides to set him loose. Or she happens to fall asleep…

**Premise**: The Deetzes come to Connecticut to get away from the stress of the city, and to pull their daughter out of the private city schools to something more provincial. But the house is already occupied by a cranky poltergeist who wants his privacy, and is determined to get them out in personal record time. He decides the Lydia is the weak link, but soon finds himself locked into a battle of wit and wills with a formidable opponent: a seventeen year old girl who just isn't all that impressed.

**Ties**: Completely unrelated to everything else I've written. The premise is not original, and has been done well by many. I like it because it gives the characters room to strut their stuff without the confines of a predefined plot.

**Disclaimer: **Beetlejuice and all related characters belong to Warner Bros. I wouldn't take responsibility for BJ if you paid me. No way, baby.**  
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**Nuff said**-- Iechyd da!

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**Chapter One: Smudge  
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"Lydia, I just don't understand it. I thought you cleaned the lens. Didn't you clean the lens?" Delia Deetz rubbed at the smudge at the corner of the picture that partially obscured Lydia's face.

"Delia, it's in the picture, not on it. And of course I cleaned the lens," Lydia said a little impatiently. She flipped through the rest of the pictures, all of their first day unpacking in the old farmhouse. "This is okay… okay… okay… ha! You look goofy in this one." Delia quirked an eyebrow at her own mouth-half-open-and-eyes-half-closed expression. But then she pointed to the top corner.

"There it is again! How annoying." Lydia squinted to see it better. "Well, that's the last time I use the locals to process the film." But Lydia was holding the negatives up to the bare bulb hanging in the living room.

"No, it's in the negs, too." She stared at the frames, and counted four with the odd smudges. "That's not the fault of the lab. These are processed automatically, and if they screwed up, it would be in all of them. But it's not." Her voice trailed off. She stared for a moment at a shot of herself in front of the mirror in the front hall. It almost looked as if... but no. Just a smudge. She handed the pictures back to her stepmother, who shrugged and tucked them back into the paper folder, and set them on the table.

"Well, what's for dinner tonight, Lydia?" Lydia raised an eyebrow and thought about it for a moment.

"If it's my turn to cook, we're eating takeout. I can run down and pick up from that little Chinese place?"

"Okay, but no getting out of it next time. You need to learn to cook if you are going away for college, dear." Delia gave her stepdaughter a pat on the cheek and Lydia scowled at her.

"You never learned to cook…" she muttered under her breath.

"I heard that!" Delia singsonged as she swayed out of the foyer and down to the basement, where her studio was going to be. Lydia preferred the attic, and was planning to annex it for her own work. She walked upstairs to set down her book bag in her room, and then trotted back down, poking her head around the corner to shout down the basement stairs.

"Delia, do you have the A/C cranked or something?"

"No, dear, it's still broken. We're having someone come and fix it tomorrow," Delia yelled back upstairs.

"Huh. That's weird." Lydia peered back up in the direction of the upstairs. "My room is freezing."


	2. Interloper

**Disclaimer: **Beetlejuice and all related characters belong to Warner Bros. I wouldn't take responsibility for BJ if you paid me. No way, baby.

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Chapter Two: Interloper**

After dinner, Lydia trudged upstairs, determined to empty out the boxes that were filling up her room before she went to bed that night.

She had gone through the same conversation at dinner with her dad was she had with Deila about the photographs, and he had peered at the smudges curiously. But nothing stayed for long in her father's head, and the conversation moved on to school and his plans for an architect's studio. Lydia had been left with a curious sensation that she was missing something.

Once upstairs, she noticed that her room was still much cooler than the rest of the house, but it seemed perfect for the work she was anticipating. She stretched languidly, her hands reaching towards the ceiling, and then jumped, startled by what sounded like a stifled giggle. And her fingertips tingled. She peered at the ceiling, but nothing was there. Nothing at all.

Oddness. Hearing things, seeing things, feeling things. The house was probably haunted. "Whoever's in here, I hope you don't mind sharing…" she muttered. She settled down in the corner and lifted the first box off the top of the pile. It would be a long night.

Beetlejuice rubbed at the place where her fingers had brushed through him. Served him for being too curious, getting too close. His body tingled with warmth from her touch, and it was not an unpleasant sensation. He scowled. This little girl had to go. If she was still here in two weeks, he would eat his hat. And he wasn't planning to have to buy one. He settled in on her canopy to watch her as she worked.

Five minutes later, he was bored. Bored, bored. Her methodical movements were immensely irritating. Into the box, out of the box, book here, book there. She must be the most anal person on the planet. Books weren't supposed to be _organized_; they were much more interesting if you happened across one that had been underneath the kitchen table for half a century or so—it was like a little discovery. If you actually knew where everything was… well, it was just too much. Really, just too much to bear.

A penny found its way into his nervous fingers. Small metal objects had that tendency. He could fill his pockets with the tiny items collected in a day of roaming. The penny bounced from one hand to the other, and then began a circular boomerang path around the room, pelting closer and closer to Lydia's dark head as she sat absorbed over her work. She looked up just as it flashed by an inch from her nose, and she swatted at it as if it were a bug. Ah, now this was amusing. He swung it around until it was flying fast enough to leave a mark, and it whistled by her ear. She scowled, but turned back to her organizing. Swish. It must be making an audible whirring by now, just barely perceptible to the dull ears of a human. Then suddenly, with a loud thwack, it slammed into a hardcover copy of the poems of Robert Burns. Lydia picked the penny up off the floor, and in a voice clearly meant to address the entire audience, said, "That is _really_ annoying." She tucked the penny into her pocket, and went back to her books.

Beetlejuice was a bit taken aback. The penny trick _always_ got at least a nervous look, or a shiver, or _some_ kind of reaction. But this pale little girl hadn't even broken stride. He chewed a bit on his bottom lip, pondering. Possibly he had underestimated this one. Well, if she required something spectacular, then he was more than willing to provide it. He hadn't gotten to stretch his legs in a long time. And if her books were any indication, she was just clever enough to be tricked into letting him out.

He settled back and closed his eyes. He would have to think about this. And she would get a little time to pretend that she had won this round. He absolutely refused to admit that she had gotten the better of him. Not such a frail, dark little girl. Not in his lifetime. But his eyes strayed open, and he watched her for a very long time, a nickel spinning hypnotically from one hand to the other.


	3. Coordinated

**Disclaimer: **Beetlejuice and all related characters belong to Warner Bros. I wouldn't take responsibility for BJ if you paid me. No way, baby.

**AN:** Witchy Wanda created a beautiful line drawing for this chapter (How cool is that?) , and i posted it on my homepage. Go see, and then visit her page to look at the rest of her excellent work!

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**Chapter 3: Coordinated**

A quiet week had gone by, after the flying penny incident. Lydia had made a few quiet inquiries about the house, and had heard a few strange stories. The previous owners had left very abruptly, and the house had been empty for nearly two years. When she pressed for details, though, her teachers and the townsfolk patted her hand and told her there was nothing to the stories. She knew they were lying, but she didn't want to force the issue. Yet.

Her dad and stepmother hadn't noticed anything odd, but that was hardly indicative of anything. Delia was completely oblivious to anything that didn't connect directly to her work. Her dad was absorbed in building his studio. If he complained occasionally that a tool had gone missing, he just attributed it to his own absentmindedness. But Lydia had taken to keeping careful track of where she put things, and more than once she found that her key or her book bag or even her fork at dinnertime had been moved.

So with careful observation and a few snippets of reluctant and furtive information, she began to sketch a rough picture of the other inhabitant of the house. It didn't seem to be harmful, although that penny had made quite a dent in the cover of her Burns collection. It liked to play tricks, but nothing too extreme. She came to the tentative conclusion that the previous owners had been timid and easily spooked. This presence would find her a tougher nut to crack.

By the end of the week, Lydia was convinced that she had the measure of her little ghost. But that was just when her little ghost had made up his mind just how to crack her open.

He had watched her watching him all week, her delicate hand falling where she knew her key was supposed to be, and then not raising the alarm. He saw her secret looks, and her quirking smiles. He had even stolen her fork at dinner while she was taking a drink, just to see how she would cover for him, and she barely raised an eyebrow, but excused herself for some ice and came back with another fork. He was intrigued.

Finally, he felt like he had waited long enough. A blunt tipped Sharpie from ol' Chucky's office tucked in his pocket, Beetlejuice cracked his knuckles and brushed back his wild blond hair and prepared to do what he did best: be diabolically annoying.

On this particular night, a Friday, Lydia was, to his complete and total un-astonishment, organizing her books. Did the girl ever run out of books? He thought she might have twice as many books as shelves, but she had managed well enough so far. That was about to change, he thought with unabashed relish. He was going to start subtly, with great delicacy. The tender approach.

But Lydia began by stacking by author, which was just too good an opportunity for him to pass up. Oh, what the hell. No one ever took over the world by being subtle, anyhow. Piers Anthony. Hmm. Looked interesting. She had quite a few, and he liked the one with the skeleton on the cover in a cream-colored Camero. Tasty. He tucked it into his pocket for later. _Bio of a Space Tyrant…_ boring. When her back was turned, he tossed it under the bed. _Castle Roogna _he put in a pile with Douglas Adams books. But since he hadn't read _Hitchiker's Guide to the Galaxy_ in a while, mostly since the town library didn't carry anything published after 1973, he stowed that one away, too. It looked well thumbed. He might give it back. In a year.

Lydia's hand settled on the stack where she had just put the _Hitchiker's Guide_ and paused, and then turned, her brow crinkled. She kneeled down in front of the stacks and hunted through them. Looking even more puzzled, she dug back into the box. Not there, little girl. He grinned. This was even more fun than taking the Portland's cat flying.

A blinding flash startled him out of his reverie, and he jerked up, startled. Lydia was looking speculatively around the room, waving a Polaroid in her hand, from the camera she had dug out of the box. Damn, but she was quick! He drifted over to look at the fast developing picture. Cursed if she hadn't caught him. She studied it for a moment, and he studied it over her shoulder. Right at the edge of the photo was a brilliant round orb. He frowned. He was much prettier than that in person. And certainly not round. He stroked his lean cheeks thoughtfully.

"I'll trade you the photo for my books, thank you." Her voice startled him again. And then it took a moment to realize that she was talking to _him_. This wasn't part of the subtle plan he had been pondering all week. She was waving the photo in the air, and glancing around her room. His room, dammit. "Come on, I know you're here. And you can't have my copy of _Hitchiker's_m _Guide_. I've had it since I was a kid."

He grinned a toothy smile. Was that the game, then? He reached up and nimbly snatched the photo out of her fingers. "I don't trade, babe."

He had startled her. Her eyes were wide and she followed the picture through the air as he tucked it into his breast pocket. But then she did something he hadn't figured on-- she lunged after it. Stupidly, he realized that he had provided her with a target. He backpedaled but she was on him, her hands plunging through his body in a wash of delicious heat.

"Oi!" He scrambled backwards to get clear of her, but her momentum carried her down upon him, and then his back was pressed against the floor and she was sitting on him—in him, for pity's sake, her face inches from his. Had she been able to see him, she would have been really embarrassed.

"Give it back! My mom gave that to me!" And then something else happened that hadn't been in his plans, exactly. Lydia's elfin features twisted; not in fear, but in a deep, wretched grief, and she rocked back on her haunches. "That belonged to my mom. Please…"

Beetlejuice felt something very unfamiliar press against his throat. It took him a few moments to identify it, and was even more discomfited when he had put a name to the ache. Guilt. He scowled. Definitely needed a new plan, because this one was unraveling rapidly. Gods, was she going to cry? Panicking, he reached up to her shoulder and gave her a shove, and she tumbled backwards and lost her balance. He tugged the book out of his pocket and dropped it on the floor beside her like it was burning his hands, and then retreated to the corner of the room to watch the fallout. But it wasn't what he expected.

Lydia took a few long breaths, and then sat up cross-legged on the floor. She picked up the book and stroked the cover, and then hugged it to her breast. And then she looked around her, and in her eyes was mixed relief with a new wariness. He could savor the heat of her, but that look was something entirely different. It gave him butterflies. She stood slowly, and when she spoke, her voice was tight with unshed tears. "I don't know who you are. I don't care if you live here. You can freeze me and steal my fork and throw my books under the bed." Oops—she had seen that. Was he losing his touch? "But please don't… I hardly have anything left of my mom. Please don't touch this." She walked the book over to the shelf and set it down with reverence. And then, to his immense surprise, she quietly left the room.

Well. He rocked back on his heels, still awash with her warmth. A dearly departed mom. Huh. He figured that the carrot top wasn't Lydia's real mom, because they just had that sort of friendly, careless relationship of two people thrown together and behaving themselves. What he didn't figure on was giving a damn about it. Why should he care? He had been dearly departed for 600 years! Well, possibly not so dear, but who thought about things like that nowadays?

Exactly. Nobody. The plan would continue as planned. A rocky beginning always made for a smooth finish, anyway, right? He brandished the Sharpie, and tugged the Polaroid from his breast pocket. Ol' BJ was just getting warmed up.

When Lydia returned, feeling somewhat fortified by a cup of hot chocolate, the book was laying where she had left it, but there was something on top of it. She walked over, curiosity perking up her tired senses. It was the Polaroid. But across the front was scrawled in what looked suspiciously like Sharpie marker, was a string of numbers and letters written in a lazy hand. She read it aloud.

RA5h55m10.3sDC7°24'25"

Well, that was cryptic. But the mystery of her own personal ghost would have to wait until morning. She crawled into bed without bothering to undress, and lay quietly on her pillow. But it was a long time before she got to sleep.

As for the ghost himself, he chewed pensively at his bottom lip, pondering his own personal girl. She didn't even seem fazed by direct contact with the spirit world. She had _manhandled_ him, taken his picture, and demanded that he give back what he had stolen. And even more mortifying, he had done what she wanted. And then she had picked up his little puzzle in her tiny hands, and rather than spending all night pondering it, she had gone to bed. Immediately. He sulked a bit at that, until her warmth was entirely gone from him. And then he had to restrain himself from drifting down on her again. The nickel flashed from hand to hand until well after dawn.


	4. Puzzle

**Disclaimer: **Beetlejuice and all related characters belong to Warner Bros. I wouldn't take responsibility for BJ if you paid me. No way, baby.

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**Chapter 4: Puzzle**

Lydia woke suddenly, and looked groggily around the room, not certain what she would find. But everything seemed to be in order. She climbed out of bed in the dim morning light, grabbed her robe, and stumbled to the bathroom that was adjacent to her room. That was a nice touch. Pros: the room had a bathroom. On the large mirror was scrawled the same series of incomprehensible numbers, letters, and punctuation as on the Polaroid. In Sharpie marker. Cons: the room had a poltergeist who didn't ask before it borrowed art supplies. She would take the bathroom and leave the ghost, thank you very much.

But as she dressed, she tucked the photo into her pocket, thinking that she should attempt an untapped resource at school—her classmates. At least they already thought she was weird at school, and she wouldn't be ruining her reputation.

To her surprise, at lunchtime quite a large crowd gathered around her when she asked if there was anything strange about the house. A boy named Will and two sisters named Denise and Wendy had particular stories to tell. Will delivered for the local pizzeria, and had seen a few very strange things.

"I remember," he was saying. "one time when I was taking a coupl'a pies up the hill, there was this huge wind, and it was really cold, but it was summer, you know? And then when I got to the house the Portland's—um, that's who lived there before you, but anyway, they said that they hadn't ordered pizza, but they had, because we have callerID, and it was their house alright, but Mrs. Portland got really mad and wouldn't pay, so I took them back." His blue eyes got really wide, and there was a hushed silence around the table. "And then when I got back to the car, I opened the bag, and the pizzas were gone! So I just got the hell out of there, but Bobby was pissed, and he made me pay for them. But it was the ghost!" His voice was full of such conviction that Lydia nodded in agreement to soothe him. For her part, she entirely agreed with him. But it wouldn't do to spill her cards all at once.

"But that's not the best story!" chimed in one of the sisters. Lydia thought it was Wendy. She claimed the attention of the gathered students with practiced ease, and Lydia was pulled along with them. "The scariest thing that ever happened was the night before the Portlands left. There was this huge storm, and the power went out in that big old farmhouse. Mrs. Portland came running out in the storm and down the hill, screaming at the top of her voice that the house was haunted. My dad was driving by—he's the sherrif, and he was driving up to the house to check things out…" At this, the girl's voice filled with self-importance, and Lydia resisted any eyebrow movement. "And Mrs. Portland was yelling like she had gone crazy, something about the books in the library, and that Mr. Portland was locked in one of the upstairs rooms—"

"Which one?" Lydia couldn't help herself; she had to ask. Wendy paused and thought for a moment.

"It was the one on the end—it has a window that you can see from the town?"

"That's my room." A deep silence fell like a curtain over the students, and a few gave her frightened looks. But she nodded to the girl. "What happened?"

"Um, well, my dad was looking up at the window and he saw a face. But it wasn't Mr. Portland! Something… horrible! Like an animal, but pure white! And when he got into the house, the books were all over the floor, and Mr. Portland was pounding on the door…" The girl took a breath. "He was okay, you know, but really scared. They left the next day. And no one has dared live there since."

"Until you." Denise, the other sister, looked at Lydia soberly. "So have you seen anything strange?" Lydia debated a moment, but then decided that the stories might dry up if she admitted to anything that had gone on there. Her fingers, tucked into her pocket, brushed against the photograph, and she got an idea.

"No, I haven't seen anything, but I found something written on the wall last night that was weird." She pulled a piece of paper and wrote the letters and numbers out from memory, since she had had ample time to study them this morning while doing her hair. Everyone eagerly crowded around her, but soon a puzzled silence fell. This was not what they had been hoping for. Possibly they were holding out for 'I killed Mary Jane with her own shoelaces.'

"What is it?" said Will, finally.

"I don't know. I was hoping someone would know what those meant." A few of the students, after looking at it, glanced skeptically at Lydia and walked away. Will shrugged.

"Just letters and numbers. Looks like nonsense." But Denise tugged the paper closer and peered at it.

"These might be coordinates on a map. That's a degree sign, and the marks for feet and inches. But this isn't latitude longitude." She studied it for a few moments, and then shook her head. "You should ask Mr. Burke." At Lydia's puzzled glance, she added, "The science teacher. He knows everything."

"Maybe it's where the treasure is buried!" squealed Wendy excitedly.

"There's treasure?" asked Lydia, puzzled. Wendy shrugged.

"Well, if the house is haunted, there has to be some reason, right? Maybe the ghost buried some treasure and then died before he could dig it up!" Denise was looking skeptical, but Will nodded.

"It's possible. Tell us what you find out, Lydia?" His smile was slightly warmer than she had remembered. She had to stop herself from curling her lip at them both, and nodded carefully instead. AH, nothing like a little buried treasure story to bring everybody closer together.

As it turned out, Mr. Burke did not know everything. After school Lydia stayed after, her newfound notoriety gaining her several appraising looks. She caught Mr. Burke as he was locking his classroom.

"Excuse me? I'm Lydia Deetz?" Mr. Burke, a large, gruff, red-faced man, nodded at her.

"What can I do for you, Lydia Deetz?"

She gave him a hopefully winning smile, and lied like a dog. "I was working on a project and came across this, and I don't know what it means. Someone told me it might be coordinates?" He took the paper, studied it for a moment, and then nodded.

"These are coordinates for something in space. RA means right ascension, and DC is declination. H for hours, M for minutes, S for seconds."

Lydia nodded, feeling a little buzz of excitement. "Oh! But what is it?" But he frowned.

"Haven't the slightest, offhand. Should be easy enough to find. Look for the celestial charts in the library. Is that all?" She nodded, and he waved goodbye and took off down the hall, leaving her clutching the notebook paper. To her chagrin, the library was already closed. So she was closer, but not close enough. But so much for the buried treasure theory. Pool Will. He probably wouldn't ask her to the prom now. Darn.

A quiet idea began to circulate in her head. She might be able to communicate with this ghost, if she played her cards right. And to her surprise, the metaphor fit. This was nothing if not a game. She tugged at her bottom lip as she walked out of the empty school, and took the long way home, by the electronics store, just to think.


	5. Conversation

**Disclaimer: **Beetlejuice and all related characters belong to Warner Bros. I wouldn't take responsibility for BJ if you paid me. No way, baby.

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**Chapter 5: Conversation**

Lydia came home and told Delia that she had a headache, and Delia sent her up to bed with a cup of coffee and a few aspirin. Lydia closed the door and locked it, placed the coffee on her desk, and then tucked her hands into her pockets and pulled out the sheet of notebook paper. She sat comfortably on the bed with her feet tucked under her, cleared her throat, and said, "Will you tell me your name?"

Beetlejuice was startled by this direct approach. He knew that she couldn't hear him while he was bound. He drifted down to settle next to her; kinda cozy up a bit. She shivered, and he smiled toothily at her. But she held still, which he admired, a little. "Babe, how much more of a clue do ya need?"

"Why are you here?" Her voice was soft, and a bit rough around the edges. He liked that. But she was talking to herself, which was kinda nuts. He shrugged. What the hell—it had been a boring week.

"I'm stuck. What's your excuse?"

"Why can't you leave?" Her tone was the same, but her question was curiously appropriate. He studied her for a moment, and decided it was just luck.

"I'm waitin' for you to use that pretty head of yours and figure it out, sweet cheeks."

"Is there anything you want to say to me?" Yep—she was just shooting in the dark. He stroked his long fingers against her cheek, and she pulled slightly away. Humans. He scowled. Always pulling away.

"Sure babe. Say my name three times. Three. Got it? And then I'll have lots to say to ya." Lydia was silent for a moment, and then she whispered a gentle thanks. She stood up, and he felt her go as well as seeing it. He pondered for a moment that he might be getting a little too fond. He watched her as she pulled something out of her pocket and opened it. A little tape recorder. She smiled a secret smile as she rewound it.

"Lets see if you are more vocal on tape, shall we?" And she pressed play.

White noise. Then her voice. _Will you tell me your name?_ White noise. She rewound it, and readjusted the equalizer. Static. Beetlejuice rolled his eyes and collapsed back on her bed, making himself comfortable. He inhaled deeply and could smell her peculiar scent of patchouli and photo chemicals. Her voice again. _Why are you here?_ A low snarl followed, and she rewound it quickly. --_are you here? _And then, faintly, _m'stuck_. Beetlejuicestartled up from his reverie. Rewind. –_here? _

_m'stuck. _Rewind. _ m'stuck._

Beetlejuice gaped, for once in his long afterlife truly stunned. The little minx had gotten him on tape! Her eyes were shining. She let the tape play, and he heard her voice again. _Why can't you leave?_ Static. Nothing. He sighed in relief. Just a fluke. And had he called her sweet cheeks? He struggled to remember. She checked back over it a few times, but came up empty. And then, _Is there anything you want to say to me? _

Beetlejuice was listening as intently as she, and he heard it before she did. A wicked smile bloomed on his lips. This could definitely work to his advantage. She rewound. --_say to me? _White noise… and then, _name three times… three. _Rewind. –_to me? --name three times… three. _ As clear as a bell. Lydia listened to the tape several more times. Finally, she looked up, like a blind woman searching for the source of a sound.

"So you're stuck, and I have to figure out your name, and then say it three times?" She chewed on a fingernail. "And you're male. So I guess I should stop calling you 'it.'" Beetlejuice bristled, and zinged his nickel at the wall. She jumped at the sharp snick of metal traveling 200 mph smashing against plaster, and then smiled hesitantly. "I never really thought you were an it. I kinda thought you were a man, the way you got so close. You feel like a man…" He raised his eyebrows at her, and she blushed, but in response to her own thoughts rather than his reaction to them.

"Lydia, Lydia, what are you thinking?" He brushed his fingertips against her cheek, and she turned, but towards him this time. He noticed how dark her eyes were, and how her pale skin reflected the dim light. Not that that sort of thing mattered to him. At _all._

Her soft voice interrupted his contemplation. "I can feel you here, right next to me." She took a deep breath. "I don't think you're dangerous, but I've heard stories. I'll do what I can to set you free. But I have to make that decision in the end. Because I have to protect my family, and we aren't moving out, my ghostly friend." She said this last with such a firm determination that he flinched slightly. Oh really?

Long after she had fallen asleep, Beetlejuice sat on her bed, watching her quiet breathing. She had outsmarted him soundly this time. Lydia two, BJ zip. He was beginning to feel like he was the amateur. It was time to step things up. Once he was out, she wouldn't find him so easy to outmaneuver.


	6. Outmaneuvered

**Disclaimer: **Beetlejuice and all related characters belong to Warner Bros. I wouldn't take responsibility for BJ if you paid me. No way, baby.

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**Chapter 6: Outmaneuvered**

The librarian was able to provide star charts over Lydia's study hall, another strange country thing that baffled her city upbringing. Go study anywhere you like, and then be back for class. She smiled. This was kind of cool. And she noticed that her reputation was immensely enhanced by the circulating stories of buried treasure, so she didn't immediately countermand them.

But the star charts proved immensely hard to read. Lydia didn't want to bother the sullen Mr. Burke again, so with her limited time she attempted to puzzle them out on her own, but with no luck. She thought that what she was looking for must be a star or a galaxy, or some sort of thing, but other than that, she couldn't make heads nor tails of the huge white foldouts covered with little black dots.

Frustrated after an hour of study and late for English, she folded the maps back up and determined that she would ask her ghost for another clue. Hopefully he would figure out she wasn't a science major and cut her some slack. She wondered why he couldn't just tell her his name. Obviously if he could deface her mirror, he was capable of writing his name. Strange.

She snorted delicately. She was studying star charts in an attempt to decipher a code which a ghost had scrawled on her bathroom mirror, so that she could learn his name and set him free, which was something she was very unsure about the rightness of. Strange didn't even begin to cover it.

That night, after a cold dinner of gazpacho and shrimp cocktail, and a few glasses of wine to celebrate Charles' finishing of his study and the acquisition of a few new clients, Lydia excused herself and climbed up the stairs, slightly woozy from the drink. She decided that a shower would help clear her head, and it did, a little. After toweling off her hair and pinning back, she dressed in a loose t-shirt and flannel pants and shuffled over to the bed. The little scrap of paper and the Polaroid were both on her desk, and she studied them for a little while, and then sighed expressively.

"Sorry, ghost, but I'm not any closer than I was. I know that this is a set of coordinates for something out in space, but beyond that, I'm an artist, not a science buff." She reached for her little voice recorder and put in a new tape, and snapped the record button. It immediately snapped off. She tried again, and it shut off again. Huh. "So you don't feel like talking, ghost?" She felt a chill sweep down her arm, as if someone was stroking her skin, and she shivered. "So, I don't understand. You can write this…" She waved the little piece of paper. "But you can't write your own name? Is that some sort of rule?"

A penny spun in front of her face, and she flinched back. But it held its position, spinning in midair. She reached for it, and it jumped back. "Neat trick, ghost." But then the penny split into three, and they whirred rapidly in a familiar pattern, a row pennies curved up toward the ceiling.

Recognition bloomed in her mind. "Orion's belt! Is your name Orion?" Her heart was thudding in her chest. Should she say it a third time? What would happen if she let him out? She remembered the chilling tale of the previous occupants. What if Mr. Portland had figured out the ghost's name and that was why he had been screaming? "Do you promise that you won't hurt me or my family or anything at all if I say your name?" But something was happening with the pennies. The pennies on each end of the belt split into three, and two floated up, and two floated down. It was clearly the constellation of Orion.

But as she watched, the left top penny began to glow. She pursed her lips. The stars of Orion had names, didn't they? She had been looking at that very constellation today on the charts, because it was so bright in the sky, and had always been one of her favorites. Orion rose only in the winter, which suited her much better than the hot constellations of summer. What were the names of the stars? "Lets see… there's the nebula… and oh! Rigel!"

She heard an unmistakable sigh of frustration in her ear. The top right penny flickered briefly, and then with a snap, embedded itself in the wall above her bookshelf. "Not Rigel?" She stared at the embedded penny for a moment. This spirit was certainly capable of violence. "You're scaring me, ghost. You haven't promised me that we will be safe." But the top left penny just glowed brighter, and she felt a hand squeeze her right shoulder. Confused for a moment, she soon realized that if Orion was facing her, it would be his right shoulder that was now glowing so brightly she had to squint. "I don't know the name of that star. Oh! Wait!" She ran out of the room.

The penny drooped. This was taking frickin' forever. But she was soon back, and clutched in her hands was a huge Time/Life book on space. She flipped to the index and looked up Orion, and then leafed through to the page. "Here it is. Rigel, or Beta Orionis is the brighter star on the left shoulder of Orion, and the misnamed dimmer Alpha Orionis, also called Betelgeuse--" She stumbled over the word, and then found a parenthetical in the margin. "Pronounced 'beetle juice', hmm, interesting… is on the right. Betelgeuse? Is that the star you're named after?" The penny spun in a triumphant, dizzying spiral.

Lydia sat silently for a moment. She was on the brink of something terrifying. She was about to let a ghost openly possess her home. The movies were all about putting ghosts back. She chewed pensively at her bottom lip. "I don't know. You haven't given me any sort of assurance that you aren't going to do any damage. You seem to have a bit of a temper. What if you're a serial killer or something? I'm too young to die."

Beetlejuice was about to tear out his hair in frustration. He would already be free if she didn't have such bad pronunciation. Dammit, dammit, dammit. She wanted his promise that he wouldn't hurt anyone, but his only objective was to get the house to himself. That had to involve scaring people. Scaring her. He scowled, feeling that same damnable tightness in his throat. He wasn't getting fond of her. Simply impossible. Little chit was barely seventeen. Hell, he had been almost twenty years older when he died, and that was 600 years ago.

Fine. He would promise anything. Because he never kept any promises, it would be easy to disregard. He brandished the sharpie at her, tugged the little photograph out of her hand, and wrote, in careful letters… Promise.

"There. Happy? Now let me out!"

Lydia studied the word. He promised. Was he lying? There was no way to tell. But she realized with a hot burst in her belly that she was going to go through with it. She couldn't possibly back down now. She wanted to know. Deep breath.

"Betelgeuse."

The penny dropped to the floor with a coppery tink. The room dropped into total and complete darkness. And the temperature dropped fifteen degrees, at least.

"Yes," whispered a dark voice by her ear. She inhaled sharply and turned, and her heart stopped for the space of an eternal second. There was someone else in the room, shrouded in darkness. "Took you long enough, babe." His voice was rough and guttural. "I figured you would die of old age before you figured it out." And then he smiled, and his sharp teeth glowed in the moonlight, and it was too much for Lydia to take in. She folded to the floor in a faint.

"Huh." Beetlejuice scratched his head. "Why do women always do that?" He sniffed under his arm, and then grimaced. "Ah. Oh well. Squeeze ya later, cutie." And he was gone in a clatter of overjoyed cackles, leaving Lydia on the floor, abandoned.


	7. Broken

**AN:** Language. I just can't write this without a little creative swearing. So, apologies. Don't swear in real life-- it stunts your verbal growth!**  
**

**Disclaimer: **Beetlejuice and all related characters belong to Warner Bros. I wouldn't take responsibility for BJ if you paid me. No way, baby.

* * *

**Chapter 7: Broken**

The room was so dark, when Lydia finally roused herself, that she thought for a moment that she had been locked in a closet. A moment of frantic exploration assured her that she was still in her room, and she was able to flick on her desk lamp and peer groggily around. Empty. She was alone. Oh, bloody hell.

A flicker of memory burned through her. Had she actually said his name? A wash of cold air, a flash of sharp teeth, and a voice that rumbled within her like an underground river. "Yes…" And now it appeared that he had vanished. Her eyes closed in frustration for a long moment. This was not happening. It must be a dream. And then she heard the screaming.

Shit. Not a dream.

Lydia was through the door and down the stairs before she had time to formulate something that even resembled a plan. But once at the bottom of the stairs, she realized that the screams were not coming from the house, but _outside_. Even worse. Fuck the plan. She tore open the door and dashed madly outside, screaming his name at the top of her voice. "Beetlejuice!"

From the top of the hill, she could see the town hall. It was meeting night, she realized, because the parking lot was full of cars of families that drove in from the sticks. Except that the lights were blazing, and people were streaming out of the building. She grabbed her bike and ran full speed down the hill, barely able to hang on as she jumped onto the seat.

By the time she reached the town hall, only a few minutes later, the crowd had thinned considerably. She heard snatches of conversation. "--huge snake!" I've never--"

"--and then it slithered right across Bobby's shoe! I just about—"

"—strangest markings! Like a black and white King snake! But huge!"

By the time she got to the door, she had a pretty good idea of what had happened. And she had also had the time to get really really angry. An older gentleman tried to stop her at the door. "No—there's a snake in there! We've called the animal control people, but they won't be here for a while, and—"

Lydia nodded and smiled tensely. "I'm sorry, but I think my friend's brother is in there. I'll be careful!" And before the man could protest further, she had opened the door and slipped inside.

All the lights were on. She blinked for a moment, and then shouted, "Beetlejuice!" Her voice echoed in the great hall. "Come out come out, wherever you are!" She heard the dry sound of a giant rattlesnake rattle, and put her hands on her hips. King snakes didn't even remotely have rattles. Fury like she had never felt welled up inside her. "Beet--!" In an instant, a cold hand covered her mouth from behind, and then she was pulled off balance back against him.

"Uh uh, Lyds. That's twice already and quite enough, thank you very much." He growled in her ear, and she struggled frantically against his hold on her, but she could have been fighting a stone, for all the good it did. Finally, she relaxed against him and let out a deep breath. She felt his cool lips brush her ear. "Promise not to say my name again and I'll let you go, little Lydia."

Lydia twitched away from his touch, but realized that he would be able to stand there much longer than her already-trembling legs would hold her. She nodded, and was relieved when he released her. She spun around. "You promised that you…" Oh. He wasn't at all what she had expected. She swallowed and continued on. "…wouldn't…hurt anyone." She blinked, feeling a little self-conscious in the physical presence of the ghost. He was not much taller than she was, and his skin was a delicate pearlescence. Sunken eyes, filthy blond hair, and a horrifically bad suit of black and white stripes. But his mouth was a sensual bow, fixed in an appraising smirk at the moment, and his hands long-fingered and elegant. She had expected Night of the Living Dead. Not… certainly not. What was she thinking?

"Did I?" He waved his arms around at the hall, but his striking jade-colored eyes were still fixed on her. "See any bodies?" She dragged herself back to the topic at hand, forcing herself to look away.

"Killing is only one small type in the realm of possibilities that is hurting, B! These people are old! There could have been heart attacks! And King snakes do not have rattles," she added primly. She remembered her anger of the moment before, but felt sapped. What had just happened?

"Ah!" He rocked back on his heels looking smug, and then waved a slender pale finger under her nose. "But there weren't!" And then he raised both eyebrows, as if he had made an unassailable point in court. She scowled, her eyes narrowing. And then she heard the sirens.

"You need to come home with me now." Beetlejuice looked at her consideringly, as the sirens got louder. "Now! Or I'll say your name…" She quirked an eyebrow at him in challenge. He bared his teeth at her in something that might have been a grin, if it hadn't looked so wild.

"Your wish, my command." Without warning, he lunged for her, and she had no time to block him. His arms were around her, and she cried out as she felt a powerful tug in her belly. Then darkness slammed down like a curtain, and silence.


	8. Scary Things in the Dark

**AN: **Whoops. Language again. :washes mouth out with soap:**  
**

**Disclaimer: **Beetlejuice and all related characters belong to Warner Bros. I wouldn't take responsibility for BJ if you paid me. No way, baby.

* * *

**Chapter 8: Scary Things in the Dark**

At first, disoriented and confused, Lydia could still feel his arms around her, and she thought it was a memory. Then she felt his hand sliding down her back in a very intimate, furtive manner, and she shoved as hard as she could. She must have surprised him because she was able to stumble backwards, almost losing her balance. He chuckled darkly.

She shuddered. "Where are we?"

She heard, rather than saw him smile, a little tiny snort of air in the silence. "Don't you recognize home, Lyds?"

She looked around and caught the familiar shape of her window. Oh. They were in her bedroom. "I left the light on."

"I turned it off."

"Why?"

"So you wouldn't be so stunned by my good looks."

"You're full of yourself."

"Wouldn't you like to be?" His voice was vibrating low in her belly.

"Eww. I mean, eww. That's gross. You're dead."

"M'not a corpse, sweet cheeks. I'm a poltergeist. There's a difference."

"Really? Cold…check. Deceased…check. Filthy…check." She smiled sweetly, hoping that he could see her. "Like night and day, Beej."

He scowled and turned away from her, falling heavily onto the bed. "Corpses smell terrible. They drop bits and pieces everywhere. They can't speak properly, nor can they fly, teleport, or make pennies into wallpaper." She followed the sound of his voice until her knees hit the bedframe. He caught her hand and tugged her off balance, and she squawked and tumbled onto the bed next to him, all arms and legs. As if she wasn't struggling to right herself and cursing, he continued. "And you, m'dear would certainly never look at a corpse the same way as you looked at me tonight."

"Oh?" Lydia challenged, sounding vaguely muffled. "And how was that?" With the last word, she managed to sit up, and tossed her head angrily. But Beetlejuice just chuckled. A match flare blinded her, and she squinted painfully as he lit a cigarette and waved the match out, leaving fire tracers clouding her vision. "Put that out."

The cherry flared, but he was silent. She sighed. "You might be immortal, but I'm not. Put it out."

"You're immortal, Lyds. That lovely, petite body may not be, but what counts is."

"What counts?"

The cherry flared again. Then, in a lazy, insolent drawl, "Having a great personality."

"Fuck you, Beetlejuice."

It was his turn to squawk. "Lydia!" But he was torn away, leaving a lingering odor of cigarette smoke and the sharp tang of ozone. She had sent him back. Three to come in, and three to go out. Interesting.


	9. Pennies

**Disclaimer: **Beetlejuice and all related characters belong to Warner Bros. I wouldn't take responsibility for BJ if you paid me. No way, baby.

* * *

**Chapter 9: Pennies**

Lydia tossed and turned that night, restlessly turning the night's events over and over. She had figured it out. And she had managed to put him back without too much damage to heart and home—um, hearth and home. But even so, she knew she was nothing if not sorely outmatched. As she slept she could feel his tension, as if a giant invisible cat were pacing her floor, muttering angrily.

"Cats don't mutter," she muttered to herself. But she could almost hear the steady stream of invective just underneath the audible range. The one question she could not answer was the only question that mattered. How long would it take before her curiosity overcame her caution? Finally, just before dawn, she finally relaxed, out of sheer exhaustion, into fitful sleep, troubled by a dream that even asleep, she knew was not her own making.

In the dream, she was dressed exactly as she had been that night, in indigo jeans and a black button down oxford. And she was walking through the town hall, but the lights were off, and the silence of deep night surrounded her. Then, faintly, she heard a whirring at the extreme edge of her hearing. It seemed to multiply as she walked, until she was certain that she was completely surrounded. A match flared right in front of her, and she blinked as the light flooded the great room. The source of the whirring noise was immediately evident—thousands and thousands of pennies were spinning in place, filling up every inch of the room but the space where she was standing. As she walked forward, the pennies parted to let her through, and closed up behind her. She felt a curious open-air claustrophobia, coupled with a sense of nervous dread.

Determined not to be intimidated by pocket change, she reached out and tried to grab a handful of the spinning pennies, but her fingertips brushed against something cool and firm. Slowly, hypnotically, he wafted into view, and her hand was pressed against his throat and jaw. His eyes were the lazy, dangerous eyes of a predator, and his mouth was tugged slightly upwards in an almost-gentle smile. She pulled her hand back like it burned, but her fingertips were tingling.

"You."

"Me." And then the cool façade of the hunter dropped and he chewed at his bottom lip, his eyes flicking around nervously. "Where did all these come from?"

She looked at him as one might look at a small, untrustworthy child. "Beej, this is your dream. I'm just hosting."

He held up his hands, protesting innocence. "Babe! This is definitely not me. You must have pennies on the brain." He flinched as a handful of coins splashed against his shoulder. "And frankly, I'm kinda scared. Want to go someplace to chat, cutie?"

"Do I have a choice?" she asked dryly. He blinked at her innocently.

"What? Don't trust me? I thought we were friends!"

She smiled. "You're kidding, right? Trust you? I set you free in good faith and you leave me passed out on the floor, for starters…"

He flinched, and widened his eyes at her. "Oh, hey. Wait! Just hold that thought, k, babes? These pennies are really starting to get on my nerves." He grabbed her hand and gave her a hungry grin. "Let's get outta here." That tug again, and she was whisked along in his wake, her protests cut off abruptly by the darkness.


	10. Cabaret Beetlejuice

**Disclaimer: **Beetlejuice and all related characters belong to Warner Bros. I wouldn't take responsibility for BJ if you paid me. No way, baby.

* * *

**Chapter 10: Cabaret Beetlejuice**

But they did not appear in her room. The room was dark, but deeply crimson, hung with velvet curtains and filled with small, intimate tables. Lydia felt a cool breath of air and looked down at herself. She was dressed in a long wine-colored cocktail dress, with a slit up to mid thigh, which her poltergeist companion was eyeing with some interest. She scowled at him. "A nightclub? I thought we were in my dream." He was dressed in an unbuttoned purple waistcoat and creamy untucked linen shirt, and looked… she critically eyed his ragged hair and the purple shadows under his jade eyes. He looked like Gentleman Death's kid brother.

"Cabaret, actually. And this isn't your dream, anymore, toots. It's mine."

She refused to admit that she was impressed. "Ghosts dream?"

"The dangerous kind do, little Lydia." He grinned that hungry, feral grin again. But rather than cower, as he had fervently hoped. Lydia brushed past him and chose a table in a secluded corner. Rather, she chose a table, because they all seemed to be in secluded corners, as impossible as that was. Disgruntled, Beetlejuice trailed after her. She waited for him to pull out her chair, and belatedly, he did, feeling somehow that he had lost the upper hand. Maybe he shouldn't have chosen that particular dress… But she sat gracefully and favored him with a cool smile. He turned the other chair with a flick of his wrist and straddled it, unconsciously putting up a barrier between them.

Lydia didn't miss much. "You don't seem particularly dangerous at the moment, Beej." He scowled at her, but she was looking around at the club. "This is nice. Can I get something to drink?"

"Orange juice or root beer?" His voice was gruffly sarcastic. She eyed him, and then deliberately looked down at her gown.

"If you're going to dress me like an adult, then I should be able to get whatever I want, right?"

There was that smile again, and her stomach fluttered a bit, despite her brave show. The ghost rested his chin on his folded hands. "What, exactly, do you want, Lyds?"

She chewed at her lip. "I should be asking you that question. You were the one who tricked me, and then kidnapped me and put me in a dress, for gods sake, and now I'm here, and you're dead, did I mention that?"

"Didn't we already have this conversation?"

"No!" Her voice was pitched too high, and it betrayed her nerves. "I don't understand any of this! Why are you haunting my room? Why can't you say your own name? Why the big production, B? And you're in my dream, now?" Hysteria rose, but she couldn't fight it now. "You attack the Moose lodge in a tiny little town in upstate Connecticut, and you expect me to believe that you're some powerful poltergeist, but you don't seem to be much of a match for a little girl!" Beetlejuice's eyes were growing wider and wider at this monologue, until he waved frantically and a dusty bottle of wine appeared on the table with two glasses.

"You need a drink, Lyds. Geez, calm down!" He filled both glasses and shoved one at her, and she grabbed it before it ended up in her lap. "One question at a time, okay? That's why I brought you here—to talk, okay?" He snorted and muttered, "Never thought I'd say that. Me." He pondered for a moment, looking unaccountably depressed. Lydia sipped at her wine, swished it like her mother always did, and then tipped the glass back and emptied it in one swallow. She held the empty glass out to him, and he refilled it, and then took a swig out of the bottle before finishing off his own glass and filling it again. "We're gonna need another bottle."

Lydia took a deep breath. "So okay, one question at a time."

"Trade." He looked speculatively at her, and she squinted at him, confused.

"Trade what?"

"Questions. I answer one for you, you answer one for me." He raised his already upswept eyebrows and looked innocent. She nodded carefully, looking for a trick but not finding one.

"I go first."

"Sure! Sure, no problem. Ladies first, and all." He perked up, listening intently. Lydia thought for a moment, during which his eyes glazed over, and he fumbled in his waistcoat pocket for an ancient-looking gold watch. She scowled.

"Why are you haunting my room?"

"I like the wallpaper. Why did you let me out?"

"That wasn't an answer. You have to tell the truth." But he shook his shaggy head.

"You didn't specify truth, sugar lumps."

"I'm specifying it now." Her voice was hard edged now. He liked that.

"If you want truth, you have to give me something extra."

"What?" She failed to keep the sharp sound of exasperation out of her voice.

"A kiss." He smiled a lop-sided smile. She blinked.

"A kiss?"

"Yes! Anythin' wrong with that?" He sounded defensive.

"You'll tell the truth if I promise to kiss you?"

"Fine, if you can't bear the thought, whatever!" He scowled and crossed his arms across his chest, erecting yet another barrier.

She smiled despite herself. "Okay. But I get to pick where I kiss you."

"Deal!" She looked suspiciously at him, but he just grinned toothily at her. He had agreed far too quickly. He had secured a promise of a kiss from her, and had given her a big nothing in return. He was really good at this manipulation stuff, and she felt like she was losing badly at chess.


	11. Question and Answer

**Disclaimer: **Beetlejuice and all related characters belong to Warner Bros. I wouldn't take responsibility for BJ if you paid me. No way, baby.

**AN:** These chapters are really short-- i notice that when i am having trouble with a story, the chapters are reduced to scenes-- complete thoughts that are individual pieces of the narrative. So, if you were wondering, that's why. :smiles: For more information on ley lines (these really exist!) and electronic voice phenomenon (EVP), google!. Ghost hunting is a highly researched and interesting field of study. And EVP you can do yourself, if you're brave enough... ;)

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**Chapter 11: Question and Answer**

"Fine," she said sullenly. "Why are you haunting my room?"

He paused, gathering his thoughts and poorly attempting to suppress the gloating look of triumph in his eyes. Lydia groaned and threw back the second glass of wine. Before it hit the table, it was full again. He cracked his knuckles to draw her attention back.

"I'm in _my_ house, which you are only _borrowing_, because it happens to sit on a convergence of ley lines."

"What's a ley line?"

He wagged a finger at her. "My turn. Why did you let me out?"

Lydia took another sip of the wine, which was actually exceptionally good. "Two reasons. The first is that I like puzzles, and I wanted to solve the puzzle you gave me. What's a ley line?" In asking this, she was aware that she was following _his_ train of thought rather than her own, but she was simply too curious to let it go.

He opened the second bottle and filled his glass. "Ley lines, my sweet, are lines of energy that crisscross the earth. All major religious buildings, megaliths, sacred places, whatnot are built on ley lines. And when ley lines cross, they produce a locus of great power. Before there was a house here, this was a sacred place, too." He left her with a question already hanging from her lips, and she struggled to resist it. This was much harder than she thought it would be. And he was grinning at her again, because he knew it. "What's the second reason?"

With some small satisfaction, she grinned back. "Because I wanted to meet you. My curiosity got the better of me." He smiled at this, and she guessed what his next question would be. But she had one of her own. "Why did you need me… no. Why did you need to trick me into letting you out?"

At this, he frowned. He had hoped that she would take his bait, but she hadn't. She was getting better at playing. He sighed, and swirled his wine moodily. He decided to give her the whole story, just to get it over with, and because it gave him a chance to brag. "I'm no run of the mill poltergeist, Lydia. The longer our kind stays on Earth, the more powerful we get, and I've been here for six hundred years. So _somebody_ decided that I wasn't allowed to roam free anymore. I got put on a leash." At this, his voice sunk to a throaty growl. "To get out, I have to persuade someone to say my name three times. But I'm not allowed to say it myself. Hence the…" He waved his hand to encompass the entire situation. "…the sideshow." He flashed sharp teeth at her. "It's getting' towards dawn. One more, and then we can… continue… this later." She was reminded of her promise, and she didn't know whether to be nervous or repulsed. She no longer knew what to think about this strange spirit.

He took a long drink, and then fixed her with a slightly disturbing seriousness "How long has your mother been haunting you?"


	12. Impossible

**Disclaimer: **Beetlejuice and all related characters belong to Warner Bros. I wouldn't take responsibility for BJ if you paid me. No way, baby.

* * *

**Chapter 12: Impossible**

Lydia collapsed in her chair, completely taken aback. "My mother? What… what are you talking about?" Beetlejuice was peering skeptically at her

"You didn't know?" His voice was casually offhand. She shook her head, mouth still hanging open. He reached over the table and tucked a pale finger gently under her chin, and her mouth closed with an audible click. "You didn't know," he repeated, this time as a statement. His fingertip stroked softly over her throat before he pulled back and settled again in his chair. But Lydia was too distracted to even notice, which made him feel a little sulky.

Her voice was very strained. "What are you talking about? My mother died six years ago."

"It's kinda hard to haunt people when you're not _dead_, Lyds. Sheesh." But she was looking at him with a new glow in her eye, one that he really didn't like all that much.

"You know her?" Intent, disturbing glow.

"No! I mean, she pelted me with pennies, and I told her to take a hike, you know? And um…" He faltered, because Lydia was gripping the sides of the table so hard that the whole thing was shaking.

"You WHAT?" Lydia was livid. He had spoken to her _mother_?

He bristled. "She _threatened_ me, and I told her to take a _hike_. That penny thing is really frickin' spooky, Lyds. Thought it was you at first 'cuz it felt…um, felt like you, but in a freaky menacing sort of way. 'Forty three penny' over an' over—frickin' weird."

All of the fierce color in Lydia's cheeks paled to nothing, and her voice was barely a whisper when she spoke. "What did you say?"

A blare of rock music burst in on them, and Beetlejuice reached out to grab her but missed. She was gone. "Dammit!" he shouted to the empty room. Impossible. The girl was impossible. He swore fluently and long. But as his frustration spent itself, he realized that she wouldn't be able to stay away from him now. She would be back. She would be back tonight. He settled in to finish off the bottle. She would be back tonight or else.

Lydia sat straight up in bed, her heard hammering in her chest. The radio was playing "Radar Love" by Golden Earring. She reached over, yanked it out of the wall, and threw it across the room. "Dammit!" She wanted to call him out, right there, and beat the ectoplasm out of him until he told her exactly what had happened. But she had to go to school, had to be normal. Had to not be a girl that spent the night with grubby poltergeists in nightclubs.

Tonight. He would come tonight, when she called. He would come.


	13. Not Like Fear

**Disclaimer: **Beetlejuice and all related characters belong to Warner Bros. I wouldn't take responsibility for BJ if you paid me. No way, baby.

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**Chapter 13: Not Like Fear**

The clock ticked backwards. One hour classes took two, and the time between getting home from school and dinner was indeterminable. Lydia spent the time alternately wondering what she would say to her mother, and worrying that Beetlejuice wasn't telling her the truth. But what he had said at the end… it had to be more than a coincidence. It had to be.

She found herself in the evening after the dinner dishes were done so nervous that she felt sick. Delia had chattered on throughout the whole meal about a new contract with a couple from upstate New York who were looking for something dark and organic to decorate their home, and her dad had listened genially, and suggested a few ideas which Delia immediately shot down with cheerful laughter. Finally, Lydia couldn't stand another word. She turned to her father and said, "Dad, did mom have a thing for pennies?" Delia fell silent immediately, and Lydia felt a twinge of regret. She was handling everything so clumsily, dead and living alike. But she had to know.

"A… a thing, sweetie?" Charles was a bit at a loss. His daughter never mentioned her mother in front of Delia. In fact, Lydia hadn't spoken of her in years. He fumbled through his memory, and then nodded thoughtfully. "She had a nice coin collection. Nothing valuable, you know. She was keeping it for you so that you would have a coin from every country…" His throat tightened. After all this time, he still missed her. Lydia chewed at her bottom lip. Where had that mannerism come from, he wondered? Probably someone at school.

"Where is it?" Lydia cleared her throat, and began again, trying not to sound so urgent. "I mean, I was just thinking the other day that I don't have much to remember her by—just a few books."

Charles thought harder. His wife had died of throat cancer when Lydia was eleven. Many things had come and gone in that long time. Had he kept it? Of course. But where? "Well, sugar, I don't remember right offhand. It's probably in the boxes in the attic somewhere. We can look through them this weekend if you like?"

Lydia's stomach clenched. She forced herself to calm down. A coin collection. Worthless. To think that the message and this were even related was a huge stretch. "Okay, dad. That sounds fun." She managed a smile at Delia, too, and then excused herself abruptly, leaving behind her bemused father and stepmother. Delia waited until she was almost out of earshot to turn to Charles.

"Has she been acting strange lately, dear?" Delia's prettily angled eyes were pursed in a frown, and Charles fought down his initial compulsion to defend his daughter at all costs. She _had_ been acting strange. Strang_er_. But the move had been hard, since they had left the house where Lydia had grown up. Delia had insisted, saying that she couldn't compete with a ghost. Charles gave his wife a reassuring pat on the hand.

"She's fine. Just give her time, and I'm absolutely positive that things will get back to normal." At this, Delia gave him a little half smile.

"That's what I'm afraid of."

* * *

Lydia was actually standing outside of her own door, feeling more uncertain than she ever had in her life. She would call him. She had to call him because that was the only certain way to get him to come. But once called, she couldn't hold him. The other option was to wait until she fell asleep. She was never going to fall asleep. Would he tear the house down? Would he continue their game? Would he demand his promised kiss? Would she refuse? "This is ridiculous." 

She forced her feet to move, feeling dread like a deep current against her. The room was freezing. He was there, waiting for her. And her heart began to pound, but the feeling that coursed through her was nothing like fear.

Where was her courage? This was about her mother. She filled her lungs, and tried to release her doubts.

"So, I'm going to say your name, now, and I have a lot of questions, and I have something to show you, so you can't just go off and set loose snakes in the DAR hall, okay, B? Gods, I'm babbling to myself." Lydia took a deep breath, and then said, all in one word, "Beetlejuicebeetlejuicebeetlejuice." There. It was done.

"You owe me a kiss," came a dark drawl from behind her.


	14. All Yours

**Disclaimer: **Beetlejuice and all related characters belong to Warner Bros. I wouldn't take responsibility for BJ if you paid me. No way, baby.

**AN**: A long chapter! Yay! Blame **mywickedlyweirdnature**, who demanded that I finish this tonight. Sheesh ;). Lydia gets her heart broken, and Beetlejuice realizes that he might actually still know where his is.

* * *

**Chapter 14: All Yours**

Lydia spun around, her annoyance overcoming her nervousness for the moment. He never failed to see her first, to catch her by surprise. He was leaning against the wall at the foot of her bed, the vest discarded and the linen shirt untucked. And unbuttoned more than halfway down, she noticed, her eyes widening. His skin glowed a very pale opalescent blue where the shirt flared open at his throat. Completely flustered, and ambushed by emotions that she had never had to deal with before, she shook her head helplessly. "That can wait—I have to show you this!" But he crossed his arms over his chest.

"I pay _my_ debts. You owe me a kiss." His expression was fixed between a sulky frown and resigned frustration. She looked down at her toes, completely at a loss. Deep breath, Lydia. He was right. She swallowed, and then approached him timidly. But he snorted gracelessly and turned away from her. "Or you can trade, Lydia."

What was that in his voice? "Trade what?" She was determined not to be on the losing side of this.

He made a show of thinking for a moment. "Howabout this? I'll let you off the hook 'til we settle this _mom thing_." His expressive mouth twisted in mild disdain. "And then you still owe me the same kiss, but as a bonus, I get to kiss _you_. Wherever I want." He was grinning darkly at her now, so much so that she might have imagined his frustration of a moment before. He was playing her. He had to be.

"I get to say no if you pick somewhere to kiss me that I… that I don't want to be kissed." Did that come out right?

"Deal!" He held out his hand to her and she grasped it in self defense, still thinking about what had been negotiated. But it seemed above board. She would kiss him, likely on the cheek or somewhere equally innocent, and then she could refuse to let him kiss her anywhere less innocent than that. She just had to be alert.

"Deal," she nodded. "Now, will you help me?"

He grinned a feral grin and stretched out on her bed. "I'm all yours, Lyds."

For some reason, the growl in his voice forced a small bloom of heat open behind her stomach. He was good at this. Too good. Good enough that she had to keep reminding herself that he was dead, and that the shirt that had fallen open exposed the luminous, delicately shadowed flesh of a ghost. The deep sapphire-colored hollow at his throat and the neat indentations of his ribs… ghost. He was a ghost. A remnant of a dead man. Deep breath. She scowled at the amused half-smile on his lips and settled cross-legged a deliberate distance from him, her back turned to him. In her hands was the tape recorder she had used to record him. He peered at it curiously but subsided as she began to speak.

"When my mom died, it was just before my eleventh birthday, and she made me promise to have a party no matter what." Lydia's voice was steady, and she slowly eased the confusing thoughts of the poltergeist on her bed out of her mind. "So we did, but it was awful, if you can imagine." He raised a eyebrow at her, but she couldn't see him. "We buried her, and two days later had cake and ice cream. And dad didn't know how to cut the cake so he made a big mess of it, and the ice cream was the fat free kind because neither of us had really been paying attention in the store. My cousins were all there, still from the funeral, and Jenny was playing the Entertainer on the piano and at some point, my dad suggested that she record it. For posterity, or something." Lydia grimaced delicately, feeling tears gathering at the back of her throat. She shifted uncomfortably and felt her back press Beetlejuice's thigh. His presence was oddly comforting.

She held up the recorder and pressed play. The tinny, scratchy sounds of a poor recording jumped into the silence of the room, and the halting first notes of the Entertainer began to play. Some laughter, and a false start. Lydia smiled. Jenny had been so proud of her abilities. And then, she finished to enthused clapping that died off shortly. A whining buzz cut in, and then, unmistakably, a woman's voice. "Forty three penny." Beetlejuice started from his lazy sprawl. Lydia rewound the tape. And again, "Forty three penny." Chills prickled down her back, and tears rolled down her cheeks.

"So I was really surprised when you said that, B. All of it. The haunting, the pennies, and those words. I never connected any of it, until you." She still wouldn't look at him, but she pressed more firmly against him, as if she didn't want to forget he was there. He reached up to stroke her hair, and then paused, thinking the better of it. He told himself that he didn't care nearly as much about the story as he cared about getting the girl child in his lap to trust him. Trust was only a step away from dramatic betrayal, and blessed privacy again. Which was what he wanted, all along. Funny, but that thought didn't make him feel all giddy like he expected. He scowled, and Lydia picked that moment to turn and look at him.

He must have looked passably disgruntled, because she twitched her lip in sympathy. "But now you tell me that she talked to you? So could you take me to her?" Her teary eyes were brimming with hopefulness. And he felt more than passably disgruntled about that. He rolled onto his back, causing her to tumble back against his hip, and she flushed bright pink and scrambled up and away from him again. "Beetlejuice!… please. This is serious."

He sighed. "Lyds… let me tell ya somethin'. Not all people who die are lucky enough to make it to ghost-status. Still fewer like me, supremely powerful and handsome and such… anyway." She was looking at him with a pained expression, and he realized with a clutching sensation at his breast that what he was about to say was going to break her dark little heart. He fumbled for the words, and cleared his throat a few times. Oh well; the quicker, the better. "So, um, anyway, your mom ain't a ghost."

"What?" Lydia looked as if she had been struck. "But the message! The pennies! All my life, I've known that she was there!"

He straightened up and took her by her frail, thin shoulders. "Lyds! It's just a tape loop!. Her last message to you, and such. And her… her, gods! her_ love_—" He spat out the word. "…like a wall around you. Protection spell, and all. She's not _there_." But Lydia was shaking, and tore herself away.

"You're lying!" She raised her voice at him now. He scowled and slammed his hand against the wall, denting the plaster. Frustration welled up like blood from a deep wound.

"You're just too _fixated_ to see the truth! You think she wouldn't have sent you a letter by now, if she could? What the fuck does 'forty three penny' mean. Lydia? It's cryptic because she didn't have the energy to finish!" He was shouting too. The whole house was going to come down around them, and neither of them cared. She actually swung a fist at him, and he let it land harmlessly against his shoulder, and then she was pounding her fists against him in frustrated grief. He just let it wash over him, until she was clutching at his collar, weeping in great, choking sobs. He sighed and held her, feeling distinctly uncomfortable. This was not how things were supposed to go. Chasing her screaming out of the house, with her irritating parents at her heels; yes. Horrifying her delicate, underage sensibilities with lewd and inappropriate behavior; definitely. Cradling her while she cried her heart out on his best linen shirt; no. Emphatically no.

Eventually she fell quiet. Beetlejuice, completely at a loss, found himself stroking her hair, just like he had decided not to do a few short minutes before. Her mouth was pressed like a firebrand against his neck, and the awareness of her radiated mercilessly through him. He could feel the delicate puffs of breath from her nose against his throat, and her hands slipping down his abdomen, and her hipbone against his thigh. And then she stiffened, and he started, certain she was going to shout at him for touching her, and uncertain how he felt about that.

"Forty three… forty three, Beetlejuice." Her voice was just a ragged whisper. "Not a number. A year! 1943. 1943 penny. Oh my God."


	15. The Last Bell Rings

**Disclaimer: **Beetlejuice and all related characters belong to Warner Bros. I wouldn't take responsibility for BJ if you paid me. No way, baby.

**AN**: Did you google it? Aren't you even curious? A million thanks to **Witchy Wanda **and **mywickedlyweirdnature** for keeping me on track with this one. Twas a beastie! And thank you with cookies and ice cream to all my reviewers—you make this worth doing. mwah! mwah!

* * *

**Chapter 15: The Last Bell Rings**

Beetlejuice sat on the bed, genuinely confused for the first time in his entire encounter with this maddening girl, who was dashing frantically around the room, searching in all her drawers and jars. After canvassing the entire room, she turned on him, her tone accusing. "You _threw_ it at me!" He looked at her, astonishment warring with nervousness in his expression.

"What?"

"You threw it at me." But she was no longer interested in him. She tucked her fingers into her pockets, and then dashed into the bathroom. A half-second later, she dashed out again, and fixed him with a wild stare. "Don't move!" And then she ran out the door. He heard her footsteps thunder down one set of stairs and then another. Silence, and then a cry of triumph. And then Chuckie was calling her name.

"Lydia, punkin? What's up? Is everything okay?" Beetlejuice snorted.

"Yer daughter just bought the crazy farm, Chuck," he muttered to himself.

"Dad! Come look at this!" Lydia's voice was full of maniacal energy. She clattered up the stairs again but headed the other way down the hall to her father's office. Beetlejuice heard Delia, muttering in confusion, following Lydia up the stairs and into the office. The door shut. He had been forgotten. He, who had made it all possible. Whatever _it_ was. He scowled thunderously and fell into a magnificent sulk. That was the last straw. Lydia, her crazy family, and the frickin' penny were all OUT!

But before he could work his terrifying, dramatic exit, Lydia rushed back into the room and threw herself into his arms. She squeezed his ribs until they creaked, and then, to his utter amazement she kissed him soundly on each cheek. "It's real," she whispered, her mouth inches from his.

"Um… what the hell are you talking about?" His mind wasn't functioning properly.

"Buried treasure, Beej."

"Buried…" but then she was out of his arms and out the door again. He shook his head, bemused. Crazy as a loon.

It was late when Lydia came back to the room, flushed with excitement. She had driven with her dad and Delia to a rare coin collector near Hartford, and he had offered them $50,000 on the spot for the coin, which he told them was the rarest and most valuable penny in existence, minted by accident during the war when copper was scarce. He had thought there were only twelve. Lydia's was the thirteenth. Charles had thanked him, but had refused to sell. He thought he could get a better price at auction. Lydia wasn't entirely certain she wanted to sell it. But she was no longer carrying it around in her pocket. The dealer, realizing that he would not convince them to sell, settled for being really nice in hopes that they would allow him to broker the deal. He had given Lydia a protective sleeve for the coin. She set it now carefully on her dresser, in the frame with her mom's picture.

Beetlejuice, long passed from curious to bored stiff, was roused by her entering the room. He was feeling left out and frowned at her sullenly from the top of the canopy, where he lay belly down, his chin on his crossed arms. She smiled brilliantly at him and reached up to stroke his cheek. "Thank you, Beej." He looked down at her and chewed at his bottom lip.

"So what the hell was that all about, not that I care?" Lydia stretched out on her bed, and despite his grouchiness, he drifted through the canopy to settle directly above her. She smiled at him again, and he studied her elfin face behind guarded eyes.

"The 1943 penny, the one you threw at me?" She arched a delicate eyebrow at him. "It's what my mom was trying to tell me. She gave it to me, and after she died I kept it, like a lucky penny? Well, it's worth over a hundred thousand dollars. Buried treasure," she added, almost absently. The joy faded from her face. "But it's just money. I would rather have her back."

"Well, you can't. Sorry, sweet cheeks." And to his surprised, he found that he genuinely was. She turned away from him, and he realized that he had said the wrong thing to her. What he wanted to say was very different.

He struggled for a moment, and then frowned at himself. "Lydia, I… I um." Try again, BJ. "When you first moved in, I wanted you out. Now I don't know what I want." There. Gruff and ugly, just like everything else about him. Annoyed at himself, he faded out, hoping that she wouldn't notice, and at the same time, hoping desperately that she would. She was tearing him to pieces.

But what she said, he would never have expected in a million years of expectations. "Beej, I think… I think that you owe me a kiss." He stared at her openly now, stunned visible. Her eyes were wide. She looked so beautiful, and so young. Damn him for a fool, but he couldn't bring himself to tarnish her. With a sad smile, he settled beside her and reached around her shoulders to draw her up next to him. She closed her eyes, and he leaned to gently kiss her cheek.

As soon as his lips brushed against her cheek, though, her eyes snapped open. "No."

He pulled back from her, and frowned. "What?"

"No, I don't want you to kiss me there."

"You don't get to choose," he growled angrily.

"We agreed—"

"We agreed that you could _say_ no. You didn't make me promise to respect your wishes." He grinned toothily at her. Ah, how his own devilish plan had turned on him. This must be what they meant by irony. But Lydia gripped his jaw in her hands, and he felt her fragile strength.

"So you were playing me." He nodded.

"Till the last bell rings, Lyds."

"Shut up, B." She rocked against him, and then she was kissing him, her lips pressed hotly against his. A wash of heat soaked him through, and he backpedaled, landing on his hands, staring at her with pure astonishment. Her mouth was open, and her eyes dark. He swallowed.

"Lydia." His voice came out in a strangled gasp. As he spoke, her face began to fall, rejection creeping in on her desire, her joy. He realized, in that frozen moment, that he was being an _idiot_. And he lunged for her, his arms curling around her, his mouth searching for hers, joining, falling. Kissing her; drinking her in as her small arms reached around him and held him close.

* * *

"Beetlejuice?" 

Lydia dropped two feet to the bed with a startled scream. She shook her head, and realized what had happened. "Dammit. I really need to be more careful." She grinned, and touched her mouth where he had kissed her, and her cheek, still cool from resting against his shoulder. A whirring sound started up around her, and the moonlight caught the flicker of a handful of pocket change spinning rapidly around her head. She had no question as to who was the spinner. Swatting ineffectually at the coins, she collapsed on the bed. "If you let me fall asleep, I'll meet you in my dreams, Beetlejuice."

"My dreams…" came a throaty whisper.

"I don't trust your dreams."

Silence. Then, shiftily, another whisper in her ear. "Trade?"

* * *

:fin: 


End file.
